He felt as would a victim to a robbery, a hostage, skulking about in the dark well after decent hours on the orders of a complete stranger. All the while he was trying to decide if it was because she was intimidating and he was frightened, or she was frightful and he was intrigued. Whatever it was, when she told him to stand and keep watch as the plant creature, clenching a sheet-dagger in her teeth hopped up into the wagon he knew he'd gotten himself in too deep; he was more afraid of what Bearach or Eichgun might do to him. But there was not escape. There, thus standing, worry wracked, the sound of footsteps echoed from down the hall.

"Adi?" the sound was like scraping of nails on a chalkboard. Adimus winced when he saw his sister Dyrshul wander into the room. She appeared disheveled--a bit more so than usual, her matted gobs of hair down over eyes. "Are you still moving stuff for them?" She rubbed her eyes with the baggy long-sleeved shirt she always wore, his shirt. She'd been sleeping in one of the chairs of the common room.

"...Yeah?" Adimus had hesitated only a moment before answering, making it seem perhaps more believable. Maybe saying the first thing that came to mind was how you became a good liar--as long as the first thing was the wrong thing--or by a liar's measure the right thing.

Dyrshul yawned. "I want to go home." She slumped over a cask. There was a long pause as if she’d doze off. Adimus unnaturally held his breath to hide his panic.

"What are they talking about in there?" he said finally, with forced nonchalance.

"It's the same. Only worse." she dismissively waved her hand. "Dad seems to think that they are smugglers, and that the merchant's lying about really being a lord. The reeve thinks so too, but Paw-paw seems to only want to talk about his dreams.” Adimus shook his head. "He even thinks that they should take up swords with the Watch to guard the town in case something bad happens. Did you hear what happened to Eichgun?"

Adimus stared blankly. "Then they are staying?" he asked. Dyrshul, her head plopped down nodded into the barrel. It would be later when Adimus was able to think clearly about what she was saying about Eichgun.

"It seems so. That friendly man with the glasses said yes, and the merchant said he had nowhere to be in a hurry."

"Well." he said. " I guess I need to go see if Laina needs any help dressing cots." He started for the door.

Dyrshul put her arms up to bar his path. "Laina says you're getting paid to do all this." Her glazed green eyes suddenly becoming much more astute.

"...She did?" Before the question could come out she felt at his wrists, and when that failed swatted at his pockets until she found the change.

"Aha!" she jerked the coins from his pockets, and then gasped.

"You know...!" he said calmly, then abruptly snatched them back. "Laina might give you a little something if you want to help her." he said. She glowered skeptically. "If she doesn't, and you do help her then I will. How's that?" She stood a moment staring at the handful of stones. "Here." he feigned a growl of disgust as he flipped one of the discs of turquoise at her.

He'd thought it may have seemed a little too suspicious--his charity, but with her eyes alight she said little else and he was able to coax her out the door. 'She's always been a bit more the naive one' he mused, then remembered what he had just been duped into.

After the coast was clear a great rattling noise came from inside the carriage. "Well?" the little creature crawled out from under it--she’d simply ducked beneath the carriage when she heard the voice, and she was so small no one was the wiser.

There was a clash, then what he could swear sounded like a ‘quack’. Delaney made a strange soothing noise with her mouth, an attempt to calm whatever was inside. It was followed some more rattling, almost like that of a cage, and Tirlag’s growl "It’s chained to the Named chassis!"

“Well, can’t you pick the lock?”

“I can’t get my hand 'round it, there’s not enough room.” There was the distinct sound of her kicking it.

“You scared her!”

“Maybe you could do it, you’ve got tiny hands.”

“I can’t pick locks.”

“Sure you can. I’ll think about it really hard, and you’ll read my mind.”

“That’s not how it works!” Delaney protested--it sounded like it wasn’t the first time they’d had a the conversation.

"Then we’re stuck. For now." She came out.

"We will need it before we are on our way. I can lead you, but I have to know where we’re going."

"He must keep the key on him." Tirlag hissed. "...You know, we could leave tonight if we had it. Just us." Adimus wondered if he was being included in the conversation, and why he wanted to be.

"I'm not picking his pocket! Your selfishness is going to get us both killed!" the little one said.

"I...don't think I should be here..." He finally mustered the courage to say.

"It's okay. I don't need you anymore." Was all she said, saundering past him to finish her conversation with Delaney, the little one begging to 'see her’ “She’s lonely.”

Adimus, feeling both oddly regretful yet relieved turned to leave.

"Ha! Another puppet for her to play with. Another dupe." The voice had come from above. It was the same voice he'd heard atop Brian's roof earlier. A thousand thoughts rushed through his mind. Had he been caught? Was she one of the merchant's guards? What would his grandfather say?

Adimus spun around when the voice whispered from behind him. A pair of green slitted eyes glowed in the darkness piercing right into him. It grinned with a toothy maw "Aren't you going to run?" its toothy smile said.

"No." His lies had worked so far, he was on a role, though his legs had already started betraying him, sidling toward the door, seemingly on their own.

The eyes drew closer. In the faint light of the lantern he could make out the dark cloak again, but the face showed nothing save the eyes, as if the insides held perhaps nothing. "Why not? You could make it back to safety in enough time to create an alibi for yourself, surely. After all, whose words would carry more weight, a Keeper of the Watch, or a bunch of thieving interlopers?” Adimus nervously reached a left hand down to steady his sword-sheath; a knee-jerk reflex he never knew he had. He wasn't wearing a sword of course. “She is a manipulative one.”

“I know.” The helpful tone disarmed him for a moment. He also felt a little judgmental for saying it, as if perhaps he’d not given her the benefit of the doubt, but he wasn’t going to defend her honor--whatever the six foot tall bestial thing said had to be true. Or maybe she was right, and he was telling the truth and he didn't want to admit it to himself.

Adimus knew what he was dealing with was not a person like he or anyone else had come to know them, and that the creature’s choice of words were quite deliberate. "Tell me, why did you follow her then?"

"...What?" He had forgotten.

"If you know she was manipulating you, then why do you let her?" the voice sounded impatient. "Given that I trust your answer."

"I-I, "

With that the figure stepped fully into the light, dropping the hood of her cloak.

What stood before him was an ebony-furred creature. Its physique was clearly enough like that of his; it had arms and legs and stood upright, yet its face was like that of a cat, whiskers tufted ears, fangs and all. She analyzed him.

"You are afraid. But, you are startled yet not frightened. You are not a good liar yourself, but enjoy being in the company of them." she perched her head. "Curious."

"...Why is that curious?" He was stalling, trying to think of something. When he couldn't, he said "Maybe--maybe I was playing along. To find out what they were doing."

"No. And no. Curious." Was all she said of it, then she rounded the corner to the wagon Tirlag had just been plundering through. Adimus followed to see her tending a strange colorful bird in a cage. She produced a tiny key unlocking it. The bird hopped on her arm, she soothed it.

"Who are you?"

“Why haven’t you left yet?” she sneered.

“...Curiosity.”

She stopped for a moment, those eerie eyes analyzing him like a piece of meat again. "Alara la Piscici de Madari, of the Mosi Tala.” Silence. ”Cait Shii. You people call us Cait Shii'." she relented.

"You're--you're one of the Dhuun Shii! You're Fae Kind."

She put a finger to her lip, and replied in a more hushed tone than before. “And you are...?”

“Adimus Buckroy. The Watcher.” it sounded rather lack-luster in comparison. He thought to include his title, but didn’t think it wise to alert her that he was an authority figure, as if the Balfourian post of Watcher might be taken seriously by such a scary thing.

“Good.” She stepped out cradling a bird. From the ire in her predator eyes he suddenly regretted being so curious. "Now Adimus, I will tell no one of your secret, that you are in fact a naive little twit of a boy and not a warrior deserving of that blade, if you tell no one about anything that has occurred here. Now go." With the menacing glance she gave him he couldn’t help but find the arrangement more agreeable.

He tried not to scramble for the door too quickly, it taking all his will power not to run. All the while the Cait Shii talking to the bird curiously. “If you can hear me, you know I’m watching you.” She spoke to it. “I’ll always be waiting in your shadows. Test me, I beg for it.”

* * * * *

Adimus stumbled into the common room, beyond knackered. The room was only sparsely populated now. Moyra was there, berating the blacksmith. Moyra, the man’s wife stood only waist high to Brian--the giant he was, but could make him, and easily any other man, feel quite the mouse when it came to it. And it had tonight; the blacksmith had no business being out this late, he just didn’t want to go home, and Adimus now felt kinship with the man.

Niall was also there. Meav, of course, had opened a room for him, free of charge, to stay until springtime and they could rebuild the house.

It was an old house, one of the only ones said to have survived the lake burst of Loch Sul. But with even this there was plenty more that could not be replaced. He’d lost his hound in the fire as well, and all of the beautiful widdlings he’d spent so much time on, and all the rest of his livelihood. The old man swaddled himself in a blanket near the hearth, staring into the distance despondently. Adimus thought to say something to him, but he was never good at such things.

Laina cleaned up glasses nearby, she herself looking the worse for wear, half-listening to the scolding with an amused smirk, seemingly happy that she was not the object of the women’s ire for once.

Typically it was she Brian would be given guff for flirting with. Most did; her bronze skin, honey eyes, dark lips, and exotic accent were far more alluring than the erudite xenophobes of the hills would like to admit. Laina had simply happened upon the village one day a few years ago, and before anyone could say anything there she’d stayed. With the snap of her fingers Meav invited her in and set her to wait on patrons and cook, and that was that; her exuberance and caring demeanor was a rainbow in a world of grey, naturally meaning that more than once the women of the village went out of their way to find issue with her. The patrons were always fascinated by the stories she told, of giant creatures that roamed the Maritian plains, of strange ruins and stranger natives--of the Fae Kind, but most of what she told them were simple anecdotes, not like the ones she told Adimus; stories of great miracles and ancient rites and blessings that had been bestowed upon her people by following The Law, all in a discrete hushed tone.

“Where is Dyrshul?” The Watcher asked her.

“They’ve started home already.” she didn’t look up at him. “They asked where you had went. I

could not answer them.” she snipped.

He would sneak out the back, as the reeve or even Tolten could be lurking in the front. In so doing he passed Anwell, who was standing there with Regby. “Boy, come look!” he whispered.

It took the boy a few moments to process what the man was showing him. He recognized the collection of mugs, steins, glasses, as from behind the bar in disarray at the man’s feet, all spilled. Anwell had filled them all up with water it seemed, and placed them all about the banister and on the floor of the porch, of this he was sure. “See? See, boy! You’d best ready that Cold Iron sword of yours.” he put a finger to his nose. “Goblyns.”

“Uncle…” Adimus raised an eyebrow, where he blood related to the man he would say he got his ‘tell’ for being a bad liar from him.

“I know, not funny.” he slumped. “Not for you, anyway, but for me? Ha! You should’ve seen Regby’s face. And your sister! Who’s mad now?!”

Adimus simply shook his head at the old man’s orchestration. Ever the trickster. But it was telling: Regby and anyone else of interest had already left, and it was only when the boy and his sword had decided to leave on his own that Anwell finally departed, and very near behind him when he did.

* * * * *

Adimus awoke in the early morning to tend to the chickens for eggs and the goat they kept for milking. Morning chores such as these always took around an hour, whereupon he would bathe in the stream out back. He did this, almost without fail, no matter how cold it got, and today it was exceptionally chilly. Nevertheless, when he was finished he always came beneath the quiet eaves of the porch, dusting off and cleaning the whittled alter beneath its small tea table and placing it on top. It was a daily rite, the Slaking, the tradition of the people of the mountains to give offering to the deities, to be done at dusk or dawn. He pulled from his sporran a small saucer-like cup, pulled from the clay of the vale and baked and fashioned by his very own hand. With it he gave offerings of milk to the small stone statue he carried, and offered a prayer in Old Daldistan. He never knew what the prayer meant, only that it had to be said, like all other aspects of the Slaking they were instrumental, crucial.

All in the village had such a cup; some were fancy, covered with masterfully textured knotwork patterns or meticulously painted. An honored few, such as the reeve, used a hand-sized sea shell. The boy had never seen such a thing before seeing it, knowing only the small elktoe mollusks that inhabited the streams of Suul Vale in the springtime, but the reeve told him that it had come from the ocean to the south, where the creatures that lived in the great water grew so as to match its vastness; greater still was the Pardoner's sacred shell, said to have been plucked long ago from the waters of the underworld in which the gods themselves slept.

Having concluded his morning ritual, he finished grooming himself, shook off his gruesome tiredness, grabbed a tea biscuit to tide himself over, and donned his Watcher’s gear.

Once a season the reeve and his local council met at the Green Beat to deliver edicts, address grievances and complaints, and catch up on general goings on in Balfour. Everyone attends these meetings, even the children, usually bored to tears at the ceremonious babbling and hollow domestic politics. The village held this meeting, simply called the Meet, and by those standards this one was a few days early. Though it was to be expected, tomorrow was Ellylon, the Festival of Lanterns. Adimus couldn't help but feel like some exhibit at a menagerie as he stood alongside the counsel the following day.

The strangers sat only a few paces from Adimus, safely placing him between they and the reeve. Tirlag wore the baby blue fru-fru dress Adimus had helped her fetch the night before, though she wore it in a most peculiar way, to put it modestly. It had torn just below the thigh, and she’d simply finished the tear. The dress had long sleeves, also, so she’d tore those out as well to match, and accented the look of it with a leather corset, a matching pair of dainty ballroom dancing shoes, and a pair of knee-high men’s stockings--atop all of gaudy rings and bobbles and Argent’s chapeu, which she insisted brought the whole ensemble together. The seething outrage of all the other women at the Meet was a palpable fume. In her hand was a prissy fan she waved about as she mockingly jeered at them with her exceptionally dolled-up face.

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Adimus stood with Bearach. Alara stood beside both obviously because she was considered Fae Kind and people were afraid of her, also because she refused to put down her arms.

The proceedings began: Regby Mac Conelly has a grievance against his neighbor Deverall. He'd found a clod of dirt belonging to Devrall's farm on his property. One of the reeve's councilors witnessed the alleged infraction on the day of its occurrence, and upon giving testimony to the reeve, Deverall is fined the amount of two Favor.

Anwell, local wooler and spinner of more than one kind of yarn he was, had come to demand his sheers back from neighbor Regby Mac Conelly, who borrowed them to cut his son's hair and never gave them back.

"I gave 'em to your boy to give back! I can't help it if he's a Named nitwit!" he argues.

Anwell jumps to his feet, and Bearach jumps to intercept before the Reeve with a gesture of warning halts him. "Is this true, Ailen?"

"I never seen them sheers, save for when I seen him using them to trim the fencebush outside his house!”

There was a moment of consideration, "Very well. Adi--Adimus, I place you in charge of this task. Grigor Adimus, by the will of the council you will granted hospitalities by Regby Mac Conelly, that you may investigate the matter with impunity." Adimus's father Bearach cracked a smile. He gave a wry glower back. "If the accusation be proven by evidence, Regby you shall be found guilty of purgeory before these proceedings and shall pay the wer or forfeit your life." He gravely responded.

The strangers spoke through the whole of the proceedings, discarding looks of shock, disgust, and downright horror from all of the other participants.

"Forfeit his life? That's excessive, don't you think?" the one they all called Alfred quietly mused.

"...What's a 'wer'?" Tirlag said in a jarringly loud tone.

"It's the measure of a man. One's worth to the community." Argent replied in a hushed tone, a que that Tirlag would continue to ignore throughout the evening. The latter never happened, nor had he ever heard of it happening. A Balfourian peasant held little value to the lordships. The 'wer' he spoke of amounted to little more than a few years of extra taxes to be given to the village. It's what Adimus might have told him, if not for the stifling silence his elders and station and (everyone else now) demanded.

"That a person's worth could be monetized. Disgusting..." Delaney said.

"Watch your tongue, slave!" Tirlag rapped her in the back of her head with her fan. They playfully exchanged a glower.

Meanwhile the reeve was callsfor a count of votes on whether to commission new horseshoes for the Watcher's only horse, and to appeal to clan Dwyer for the issuance for Adimus a horse of his own. Reluctantly the majority agree, echoing sentiments that the mobility and speed of the Watchers may be crucial in light of the goings on. Brian, the local redsmith is charged with the work, much to his excitement, for there has been little need for him in a while.

Brina Lathern addresses the council and villagers, requesting help for tomorrow’s Ellylon. She suggests the help of the children, to which the townsfolk agree, erupting the room in a chorus of joyous cheers from the little ones. Dyrshul had outgrown such things obviously, from the look of relief about her face when no one acknowledged that she would be participating. Adimus ruefully glared at Dyrshul, who sat nearby, enjoying her comfy chair, having to do nothing, not now, and apparently not later as well.

The Watcher rocked back and forth on the soles of his boots. The proceedings took several hours, and despite that it was only midday his feet had already become tired. He was forced to rise early and perform a march that wasn’t his. Eichgun had apparently hurt himself pretty bad, having fallen from his loft. Eichgun, as Meav could tell you, despite being a fierce friend to everyone, was a notorious drunk. This, coupled with the lack of sleep after last night’s excitement had left him absolutely exhausted.

"Are there any more grievances..." Cayden began "or articles of discussion before we set about addressing the concern which the council, and I say everyone present wishes to speak on?"

There was silence. "Very well then. Now for the order of business which you all know ought be addressed."

Niall's farmstead had been razed to the ground. By someone unknown to the village--there was no sugar-coating it.

A precession of villagers would recite for them all of the anecdotes Adimus had heard in the past few days, the things that had set him on edge: spooked cattle and horses being restless, a dug up grave, animals that usually flee in fear at the sound of footsteps wandering into town and gawking about as if watching, spilt buckets and troughs, broken mirrors. And then there was Niall's dog. It was found on the corner of his property, right beside the Beat, by none other than Adimus himself. Its head had been smashed in. Adimus prayed that he would not have to stand in front of them all and recount the gory tale. Thankfully he never was.

"Graces are upon us in our hour of need. We have the privilege of welcoming one who may be able to shed light on all of this." He said, with as much pride as he could muster given the grim subject. Only a few looked confused; apparently this was already old news. “Alfred Juminion III, Sum Seer of the Lapidarian Order.” He announced, and the spectacled man stood and bowed. In his hands he held a staff, which he handed to the boy to hold.

The thing was unlike that which he’d ever seen. The haft of it appeared to be made of stone; a black and green marble perhaps, though he wielded it with ease. The upper third was worked with gold that looked like licking flames, inset with some sort of crescent-shaped clasp composed from a red and black metal, which was jointed and connected in two places to be manipulated like a vice--it reminded him of an old set of calipers Regby had. The black and green metal appeared again, emerging from the flames, grazing the tips of the crescent before ending in a sharp point. A ring of stark white and gleaming gold, beginning amidst the flames before the crescent and ending near the pointed tip of the haft, set with a socket to pivot and spin freely around them all.

The villagers muttered amongst themselves. "Bearach. Present the first article to the Seer." he motioned. Adimus was at a loss as to what was going on, he thought that perhaps he should have been listening in on their conversations last night instead of skulking about, he thought to himself.

"First." He said. "At the request of the council we wish to offer a test to the Seer, to allay any doubts as to the authenticity of your status and to the accuracy of your Readings." He said to Alfred.

"Of course." He answered softly.

Bearach stepped forward and handed to him the first item.

"We will start with a coin. Who here has held it?"

Delicately he removed his pair of white velvet gloves, then took the coin from his hand. He paused for a moment with an unreadable look on his face, and closed his eyes."It smells of smoke and sweat. It was given to the village blacksmith." He studied the rectangular shard of jade. "It was found on the ground and given to you by none other than the one you trust as a Bard of Bowen with whom I travel."

Brian the Blacksmith, with the lungs from his barrel-chest bellowed "You found it, thank the Ollatharii!"

Inexplicably Tirlag swatted at her pockets in panic (or where her pockets would’ve been), then she shot smiling Argent a spiteful glare no one else meant to see. Adimus was instructed to give it back to the bard. It was a strange way to word his relation to the man, one which prompted a narrow-eyed glower from Argent to Juminion. “ ‘Trust as?’ ” he seethed under his breath. “Thanks, kid.”

“What’s going on?” he decided to whisper to his father when the mutterings of the crowd could mask it.

“He’s a Faeth. A seer of omens.” Bearach answered back, in an unsure tone as if he himself were just passing it along.

"To whom does this book belong?" The reeve continued.

Adimus watched as the soft-spoken man held the book, eyes shut. He ran his fingers down it, as one would when examining some alien object for the first time, then flipped its pages. Adimus already knew whose it was.

"Hmm..." he delicately closed it. "I get the strong impression that it belongs to a person from afar. The person who came about it perhaps had not had it very long? They could have gotten from a merchant. Or a trader, because it does not belong to a southlander. It most definitely was held by someone with the smell of grass in their hair. A Mansii." He said finally as if coming to some conclusion.

Adimus handed the book back to Laina, who clasped it almost as if hiding her shame. He didn’t have to look, it was a romantic Torantii novella she’d collected, one of several she’d seen peek at under tables when she thought no one was watching. He had to give a wide-eyed shrug to repel her accusative stare. ‘It wasn’t me.’ he tried to say with his face.

“Then, this.” Cayden said, handing him a charred walking stick.

The knubby blackwood cane was Niall's, Adimus knew. He made them as a hobby which in turn had become a small side-business for him. When Bearach produced it and handed it over to the spectacled man, the room fell into dead silence once again. The old man, hidden in the crowd by anyone who didn’t know it to be him, watched intently.

Adimus watched as the soft-spoken man gripped the cane, eyes shut.

Just then the sturdy wooden door was slung open. "Councilmen!" a voice interceded. “Councilmen! I have a grievance!” The reeve continued unimpeded, for a moment, attempting to ignore the pudgy, gnarled little man that had just barged in. Though few probably could. Strange charms and talismans made seemingly from odd-shaped twigs and twine dangle from pins from under his periwinkle cloak. Knots tied into eccentric patterns dangle from his ardent head adorned with sprigs of herbs and a berry or two. His hair was wild matted locks from a lifetime of ornamental liming. The hunkered old man was garbed with the green and black tartan of a Grigor, though his cloak clasp bore and owl's talons, grasping a band of leather knots. It matched the 'stunning piece' that Adimus heard Argent remark about which sat atop his head, which could only be described as the stuffed corpse of an owl somehow fashioned into a hat.

Adimus hid his face, looking down at his younger sister in shame; the same look he gave her when she'd gotten herself into trouble and there was nothing he could do to help her. Dyrshul looked straight ahead, eyes widened; the same look she gave when they both got into trouble and were interrogated and she held her tongue to absolve herself of being co-conspirator.

After a few moments of muttering curses and realizing that he was not going to go away. "I admire your...fervor, Luloch, and once again we appreciate your concern for your fellow villagers, but-" Luloch attempted to interrupt him again before he can finish, "I beg you-." but Cayden's commanding voice hushed him.

"But, just as we discussed and upon which we even voted, prior." he motions to the throng, "Of which you speak cannot be done. From a pure standpoint of coin we just cannot afford years of debt at the hands of the Lords of Ormond for this... scarecrow."

"and you'll pay the cost for your swollen, empty heads unless you heed my warning, and short arms and deep pockets is no excuse, McConell! " Luloch Buckroy pointed his gnarled old cane at the man, no less itself a shillelagh that Niall had made for him. "Your timid tongue and pandering before the lords of Ormond shall be the doom of your countrymen!" he said, emphasizing his words by stamping his cane. The reeve motioned the unspoken order to the Watchkeep to escort him out. "And the lives of their children! And yours! Scarecrow!? Speak to me of such when the birds of carrion feast on your corpse, reeve of Meacmarion! Slough Oiche is coming! It will be here before you have a chance to beg it weren’t so!" he continued. Looks of outrage and even horror beam out from the faces of the crowd. Bearach reluctantly stepped in front of him. "Out of my way, boy!" he tries to push him aside with his cane. He says something to the man in a tone too quiet to hear. The old man tries to resist and Bearach, batting away the man's feeble affront, pulls him out the door kicking and screaming.

* * * * *

Large, white puffs of willow and dandelion blanketed the ground like snow, blowing along with the occasional stray leaf in the inexplicably warm breeze that often filled this valley. Lantern Beetles, long banana-size insects that invaded such valleys in midsummer still flooded the cozy grove with their green light. A wall of noise, the strange rattles and buzzes of thousands of insects blotted out all beyond this grove and the moons and stars which glowed upon it, easily available to be gazed at in awe atop the large stone in its center. It was still warm, and would the calendar of the Balfourians reflect it not yet harvest time, but the Great Kingdom’s calendar didn’t seem to account for such things.

Adimus watched the old man do as he always did, standing silently at its zenith, admiring the view, filling the strange divet in the stone with water. It was an ancient place, he’d explained, older than even the lake. The ancestors had made this stone an altar upon which to pay homage to the Teg Flaith, the Fae spirit which held Dominion over the land. The ‘bowl’ was made by them, and the flower petals and leaves which he had carefully selected to float atop it, when given as offering, drifted in a pattern that would foretell the portents for the coming year, among many other things.

He was not the first and only person to do this. Several older folk in the village knew about this place, but always came in secret, never announced to the village at large, lest Tolten learn that attention had been drawn from the Formerians. They had never encountered another party here at the rock, but knew that old Niall came; they all had their own superstitions surrounding the place. Ever since Adimus had come to stay at Balfour with the Buckroy family Luloch would come to this spot on the same day each year, just before the Festival of Lanterns. Luloch often came here after a brisk rain as well, whereupon he would sit upon the large stone, gazing into the reflection. Meditating, chanting sometimes, muttering recitations under his breath, puck words, he called them.

Poplar crackled from their cook fire, throwing sparks into the dusk-laden air, Dyrshul was off chasing a sparrow that always seemed to be just out of her reach, as if it delighted in teasing her, her face covered in molasses, an ingredient that between Luloch and she hardly made it into the supper pot.

"Hah, Boy?"

"Stop." Adimus deflected the stick that poked at his ribs. Bearach came in again, unfazed. He batted at it again. Bonk. "Whacha gonna do, eh? Whacha gon' do?"

Adimus nabbed the end of it, having been thus challenged. It was a game they always played: take a sturdy stick, around a foot long. Each person grips the end of it, and attempts to get it out of the other person's hand, with no other touching allowed.

"Ack!" He finally relented after a good five minutes of it. His forearm burned like fire. In his youth the boy thought it was a game--and it was; many a win came when the opponent couldn't catch their breath from laughing, but he didn't realize until later that it was also an important exercise that taught of distance, footwork, and leverage, and strengthened the chief muscles needed for wielding a broad sword. He'd only been able to best him a few good times, and only fairly recently. He could also beat Eichgun on most occasions. His old man said it was because he was getting stronger. He never wanted to believe it, and always felt as if Bearach was just getting older. Though it should be noted that Luloch could still beat any one of them unless he was challenged more than once, and only then was it the tiredness that accompanied his age that defeated him, tenacious codger he was; Luloch had been a Grigor as well--it was perhaps the sole reason that Adimus was part of it. Even though there were many others in times gone by who served the Watchers that were from disparate families, and the title was not seen as patriarchal or dynastic, the reeve of the village, at his request had begrudgingly bestowed the honor upon the boy.

It was always a more celebratory affair, this yearly expedition they took deep into the woods of Suul Vale. Serendipitously this was also close to where they'd all met. Still this time was different.

“It is looming.” Luloch glumly said, sobering them both when he turned to them. “Can’t you feel it in the air?” He tapped the remnants of his pipe out on the ground.

At that Bearach gave a phlegmy snort of exasperation and went to tend the fire.

Finally, feeling his way down off the rock with his cane like some blind beggar, having thus the time to clear his head, Luloch came up beside the boy. “I must apologize for my outbursts, my boy. I understand how embarrassing it must be, and how little you want to draw attention to yourself.” Luloch said. He’d not been asked to apologize, nor had Adimus given any indication that he’d been even bothered by it; he wasn’t even sure why he’d address him of all people. Luloch was not one prone to such outburst, this was true but he could tell the guilt weighed heavily on his mind, so heavily that it drove him to apologize, another thing he was quite prone to doing--the last two days had been full of firsts though. The old man continued, as with a grunt he took his final steps off the thing, easing himself down with his shillelagh, “It’s just that, you know just as I the dire consequences we face. If only I could tell them without betraying you and Dyshul and the rest of this family.” he sighed, adjusting his glasses for a moment.

“Have you had any more dreams, Adimus?” Luloch asked the boy, trying to shift the subject when he’d noticed his sulking had become awkward.

Bearach’s eyes now glowered off into the darkness from beneath a furrowed brow, hand on the pommel the broadsword, his terse lips concealed beneath his fiery beard. He old man’s word had stolen his whimsy.

“Yes.” He replied. He gave a few moments to think and reflect. Luloch wasn’t just asking if he’d had any more dreams, Adimus knew by the old man’s bated breath of what he truly asked. This was a secret that he’d been told never to keep from him. Everyone had called them dreams, despite the fact they even seemed to occur in the day time, or anytime Adimus began to think about this strange feeling he would get, mostly when he was bored, in which case people simply accused him of having an overactive imagination. The boy closed his eyes. “It’s sunset. I’m gazing out onto an empty field of rolling wildflowers and barley grain from...my room. I see a tower off in the distance, impossibly far away and yet still visible, glowing as it catches the fading light of day. It stretches from the roots of the world off into the firmament. I’d hurt my neck to try and see its top. Another moon glows above, lighting a yard of shorn green grass outside my window sill. All glows here--lit in inviting rainbows of color that shines in mist or upon the cobblestones in rain. It’s mid-summer, Crea, sweltering, yet it is not hot at all, I’m actually quite cool. I see a beautiful lady with golden hair, braided in the back. I’m sitting in my room while she serves me food made of snow.”

“…I see.” Was what Luloch almost always said. Adimus was very good at judging what the old man was thinking, save for these times, but he didn’t need to, because his actions said everything he ever needed. Luloch had kept Adimus for longer than any other caretaker, and it was he who encouraged Adimus to never hide who he was, and more than a few times he’d threaten a cane upside the head to any who derided or taunted the boy. Adimus hid the visions besides, aside from telling Laina, if only to avoid such trouble.

There was a long silence. “Look.” Luloch finally spoke up, “I think there is portent in these dreams, Adimus. Just as my dreams vex me.” He put his hands behind his back, a habit he always showed when embarrassed, as if he were hiding his feelings behind himself. “Whether they be memories of a life forgotten, or simple flights of fancy, doesn’t matter. Whatever they may be, they means something. And make no mistake: I believe you. ” he glanced afar to the world outside. “Don’t forget that.”

It was as conflicted an opinion as anyone else had ever given him. He was beginning to wonder if he’d ever really know what they were. The visions were vivid, almost like real life, and while most of them were simply mundane occurrences such as this one, some of them were wildly fantastic in nature. Both the mundane and the wild ones always captivated Laina, who told him that his imagination was very vivid and that he should become an artist, when he would sketch them in charcoal or carve them with his tablet for her. Adimus always amused the notion with her, masking his real feelings about the experiences.

“What has gotten into you, pops?” Bearach then moaned. “First you lose your mind with the council, as if that helps…” He made sure Dyshul wasn’t listening “...our situation.” it was in a much lower tone. “And now you’re spouting off heart-felt platitudes at the boy. And what’s more you encourage this nonsensical talk he carps from his wattle.” He strided up the old man and put a hand on his shoulder, trying to ease him along. “Give it a rest. You’ve done enough to embarrass us today.”

“Let go of me!” He swung his cane at the lug. “What I’m saying to Adimus is important. Now you give it a rest!”

“You know lad,” he continued on with what he was saying. ”I think you should know that regardless of where these dreams may lead you, that you should know that you have a family right here, Adimus. And I’m sure Bearach would say much the same, had he the wherewithal to be a man.” With that he turned and left.

Bearach blew raspberries as the curmudgeon walked past him. “It’s not in what you say--It’s what you do. He knows.” He looked at Adimus. “Some things needn’t be said. Right, lad?” He thwacked him on the shoulder, and turned to leave with him, hurrying Dyrshul along. “Action always gets the better of words.” He looked at them critically. “If you two don’t stop it with this I’ll prove it--cause no amount of words will due to describe what my fist is going to do to your faces.”

As they began to leave Bearach picked up the cooking pot and poured out the remainder of the sweet beans. When the old man was far enough away for his comfort he pulled him aside. “Adimus. I know I make light of it, but you know that if anyone knows it is I: it is hard to call for help when sworn to silence.” he dusted off his hands. “It’s a curse. I don’t want that for you.” he spoke in a quiet tone. “Just do what he says. I think everything’s going to turn out alright. I do.” The look of strain upon his face was more unnerving than any scowl he’d ever seen the man make, indeed, this was hard for him, and Adimus was left wondering there in the hanging dusklight what had warranted it.

The warmth had finally broken, like a flourishing crescendo that marked summer’s end before the the day bowed and the curtain of night was pulled. A cold autumnal wind whipped around him as if to usher him along, and as the rest of them trailed off into the dark, like a leaf tossed in the torrid tempest he could do naught but abide, helpless before its pull.